


The Chichen Itzà Oracle

by droogproxy



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: M/M, Rosenkreuz, fucking rosenkreuz, implied child harm and death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-04
Updated: 2012-08-04
Packaged: 2017-11-11 10:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/droogproxy/pseuds/droogproxy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time he hears about Crawford, it’s a sort of legend. Three drowned children in the Scrying Pool and young Brad Crawford floating among them, blue-lipped and shivering with visions. When they dragged him out in the morning, his first coughing words were a prediction of his own greatness. <i>American</i>, they say, as if the Yanks have ever made any significant contributions to the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Chichen Itzà Oracle

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Springkink prompt: "Crawford/Schuldig; first times - the first time they ever..."
> 
> Rosenkreuz through Kapitel; complete AU as regards Side B and all that.
> 
> A little bit of sex, mostly implied, and a bunch of firsts.

The first time he hears about Crawford, it’s a sort of legend. Three drowned children in the Scrying Pool and young Brad Crawford floating among them, blue-lipped and shivering with visions. When they dragged him out in the morning, his first coughing words were a prediction of his own greatness. _American_ , they say, as if the Yanks have ever made any significant contributions to the world.

Since jumping into the Pool, Crawford has risen to the top of every class, becoming the name of the Rosenkreuz student body. The whole of Rosenkreuz is full of whispers, excited voices: the new bright hope for the future to an ancient organization still dreaming of _Reich_ glory. He’s respected and renowned and exalted. Schuldig hates him.

Being new at Rosenkreuz in the wake of somebody like Brad Crawford is like being a small, plain fish in a tank of Great Whites: if anyone is watching you it’s to see if you’ll make a good snack. The bottom of the foodchain is an endless battle to climb just a little higher and push someone else back to feed the sharks.

Schuldig travels through the waves of Crawford’s reputation with both eyes open for any chance to break through the surface from crushing obscurity to notoriety.

 

The first time they meet is also the first time they fight, and the last. Young Brad Crawford isn’t all that young, from Schuldig’s perspective; he’s tall and broad-shouldered and _older_. But the pent-up aggression of a little fish with growth pains carries him forward and balls up his fists against the Scrying Pool’s newest, biggest shark. Speed and unpredictability helps, but it isn’t long before Crawford has him in a stranglehold on the floor.

”Normally you would be a bag of broken bones after this,” Crawford breathes in his ear, so quiet Schuldig can hardly hear him, his prophet mind buzzing with a front of anger and blood. ”But this will be the last time we fight. I could use you.”

Schuldig blinks, thinks, and takes his chance. The first time Schuldig yields to Crawford, he tells himself that it’s a lie, that it’s rebellion.

 

After three years, no one can remember a time when Schuldig wasn’t Rosenkreuz’s master mindbender. Between the three of them - Crawford, Schuldig and little vicious Farfarello - they cover all of the prized virtues: cunning, ruthlessness, ambition. They do a good job at faking unflinching loyalty, too, even if Crawford refuses every attempt to add a fourth member to their team. He turns down pyros, wears out telekinetics, terrifies the life out of a few shapers.

”We work with people,” Crawford tells the school heads. ”We don’t need to tear down buildings.”

Over dinner he says to Schuldig, ”Yet,” seemingly out of the blue. Schuldig passes the salt and nods. If he smiles, it’s only at his cup.

They walk together through the halls, watching students back out of Farfarello’s reach and avoid their eyes, and Schuldig has a giddy flutter of something he doesn’t recognize but thinks must be a power rush.

 

They make it through Rosenkreuz on willpower, teamwork and brutality, and then there’s Eszet. Their first meeting with the Elders shakes Schuldig to the core; he’s out of his depth and treading water over the gaping abyss. Crawford gets a glint in his eyes, that ting of events lining up in his mind, and Schuldig realizes for the first time that he’s been following Crawford for eight years without asking what their agenda is. He would laugh, if it weren’t for the cold sweat down his back. Crawford speaks with the Elders in something like a secret tongue, the language of prophets: _the sleeping will rise; the rain must fall; hail the warrior-king._ Then the lady smiles, wrinkles deepening, and says, ”Go on, dears, bring us the world.”

Afterwards Crawford looks at him, runs his thumb over Schuldig’s lips and nods, and that is that. Come this far, Schuldig doesn’t know what else to do.

 

They receive order to go to Japan, and Schuldig knows Crawford’s absolute stillness and the level, almost sombre, tone of his voice when he bids their masters good-bye. This is what he’s been waiting for, what _they_ ’ve been waiting for. Schuldig feels excitement creep up his spine like electricity and thinks of Japanese schoolgirls and blood and his gun in his hand; perfectly legit things to get excited about.

It’s like Christmas for the very first time.

Eszet lets them off the leash. They go to Tokyo. They suck up to self-aggrandizing businessmen with ambitions, which might be Schuldig’s very favourite kind. He knows Crawford loves it, deep down; the simple, one-track minds of the easily manipulated and fiscally loaded. They love the superiority, and they love the money, and they love the opulent, deceitfully simple offices where they fuck on solid mahogany desks and top secret reports.

Japan starts to smell of freedom and Schuldig buys himself new clothes, burns his cheap-cotton school suit. Crawford talks. Just a little, at first, as if he’s baiting Schuldig, testing how much he can take in before he has to tell. Schuldig has a pretty remarkable mouth capacity, which he shows Crawford while he listens. Crawford’s pronunciation becomes a little sloppy towards the end, but Schuldig gets the gist. They make plans.

Then the florist-vigilante posse gets overexcited, and suddenly it isn’t just Eszet they’re playing and Takatori grows more unbearable each day. With Nagi’s schoolboy crush and Farfarello’s Nun Thing, Schuldig has to cling to his faith in Crawford’s visions - but so, he knows, does Eszett. Sometimes he’ll wake at night to find Crawford tracing his fingers over Schuldig’s neck; whatever he sees, Schuldig doesn’t want to ask anymore. If they’re drowning, he doesn’t need to know. Crawford promises him blood, uncharacteristically sincere, but during the last weeks in Tokyo Schuldig feels true doubt for the first time.

 

The first time he hears Crawford laugh, truly, is after the tower. They world is grey and wet and cold, and Schuldig feels like a wrung-out rag gasping for breath on the rocks. Crawford lies facing the sea and at first Schuldig thinks he’s choking or worse, crying. But when Schuldig turns him over Crawford grabs him by the back of his neck, eyes burning with triumph and elation.

”I saw this,” he says, voice rough with seawater and laughter. ”I saw this.”

They cling to each other, laughing like madmen risen from the holy waters.

Now there is only greatness left.


End file.
